A Whisper of Death Read online

  A Whisper of Death

  Book One of The Necromancer Saga

  Paul Barrett

  Dedicated to Whitney Elizabeth Hunter. She believed in me when many didn't. Wish she could be here to see it.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Falstaff Books

  1

  Who was the man known as the Dark Savior? The numerous legends that have sprung up make the wheat of truth hard to separate from the chaff of hyperbole. I can tell you that, before the idea of Dark Savior ever came to be, he was a bitter and frightened young man.

  -Excerpt from lecture by Corberin of Draymed, given at the University of Straph

  Erick Darvaul sat in an uncomfortable iron chair on his manor’s second-floor balcony, stared at the cliff, and watched his parents fall to their deaths. Their bodies splashed into the raging ocean, never to surface. He relived the event in his mind and did nothing to stop them, as helpless now as the night it happened.

  A creature perched on the balustrade, clawed feet wrapped in between the spiked posts for support, barbed tail extended behind for balance. He did not look at the cliff. He stared at Erick, his creator, a pale, frightened man-child with a thin chest and skinny arms, dressed in the same dark shirt and pants he had worn since that fateful night a month ago. Erick’s brown, curly hair flared around his soft face in a tangled mass. Blue eyes stared, seeing nothing but pain.

  Created from Erick’s blood, body, and soul, the homunculus knew his master’s agony as if it were his own. At seventeen, Erick might be a man in years, but still a child in many ways; Blink feared for his master now more than ever.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Blink,” Erick said, his voice soft.

  “Perhaps you do. It’s the same thing I’ve thought all these nights.” Though they could share minds, Blink had not offered his concern to his master’s scrutiny.

  “You’re afraid I’m going to follow them.”

  “I’m afraid they left you ill-prepared.”

  “For what?”

  “For life without them.”

  Erick blanched. For a moment, his eyes locked with Blink’s, then returned to staring at the cliff’s edge. It would be barely visible to his master, even in this night’s full moon. On past nights, Erick had viewed the bluff through Blink’s eyes, using the familiar’s heightened senses to better see where his parents had jumped. Tonight he seemed content with his limited vision.

  “I’ll survive,” Erick said, but the words came out choked. “I’m glad you give a damn, because they didn’t.” A breeze blew, bringing the smell of salt from the ocean, eight hundred feet below. The ocean that swallowed Erick’s parents.

  Erick turned from the cliff and toward the town that nestled downhill of the manor. He frowned. “What’s that?”

  Blink shifted on the railing with his wings half spread in case the loose fencing gave way. Erick’s father Darric had often talked of fixing it, but it would likely remain forever undone.

  Pinpoints of light appeared from behind the town’s outer buildings. Torches, Blink realized. Lots of torches.

  “It’s the villagers,” Blink said. “What are they doing?”

  Erick sat up and pushed away the hair that fell in front of his eyes. “They must know my parents are dead. They think the manor’s empty, and they’re going to destroy it and burn out the ‘evil.’ They’ve always hated us, and now they have their chance.”

  The town of Draymed feared his family. It had been a constant lesson from his parents, confirmed by Corby, the one villager who dared to speak to him.

  “Do you think Corby told them?” Blink asked. “You wouldn’t see him, so maybe he became concerned.”

  “I couldn’t see him,” Erick said. “It was too much, too many thoughts.” Fear, despair, and hatred had warred through Erick, and he still didn’t know which would come out on top. He didn’t want his only friend caught in the storm. “He might be worried, but he wouldn’t betray me to the whole town. Would he?”

  Blink shook his head. “I don’t know.” He kept his voice soft as he asked, “What should we do?”

  Erick ran a hand over his round face and rubbed his chin. “We hope the fence turns them away,” he said, without conviction. Then he frowned. “If it doesn’t, I’ll let my undead show them they have every reason to fear us.”

  The cluster of torches bobbed toward the manor like a fiery glowworm. Erick connected with Blink and studied them through his familiar’s eyes. He recognized many of the villagers from Blink’s nighttime forays and Corby’s descriptions.

  Reflected light showed him the five guardsmen who led the way, flanked by their commander, Brannon. They wore gleaming chain mail, partially hidden by tabards of brown with a diagonal green slash. Stout wooden shields bore a silver rose in the upper left and a redfish in the lower right.

  Carn, the portly, balding mayor, wore a loose-fitting blue jerkin and gray breeches. He followed the soldiers, limping as quickly as his cane and game leg allowed.

  A contingent of villagers followed. Men, women, and children trekked up the hill. All had full hands, wielding scythe, sickle, or hoe. The children carried torches, leaving their elders with hands free for bloodshed. Erick’s previous bravado wavered under the impressive sight. He didn’t have the power to stop such a mass. “It’s the whole damn town,” he muttered.

  “You know, flying away is always an option,” Blink said.

  “To where?” Erick asked. “Some other place where we’re hated. No, I’d rather be killed defending my home than die among strangers.” He looked at the cliff again, his mother’s scream echoing in his head. “And it’s better than the way they chose.”

  In the midst of the throng came Fathen, priest of the Sun God Caros, wearing the bright yellow robes of his office, an orange sunburst upon the breast. He towered a foot above his followers and carried no weapon or torch. His hair, the color of old oak, was braided and twined with gold cord. It trailed to his waist and gleamed under the flames. Light flared off his robe and played against his face, his cheeks and brow jagged as the island cliffs, eyes shadowed from the golden glow.

  “Looks like the priest finally got his way,” Erick said. Corby had often mentioned Fathen’s vehement sermons about the evils of Necromancy.

  “I can swoop down and kill him,” Blink suggested. “Maybe the rest would lose their nerve.” He flared his wings, ready to leap at his master’s command.

  Erick considered how the villagers would react to Blink’s four-foot-tall form sweeping down on them, wings outstretched, clawed hands and feet swinging. His gray, gargoyle-like body would descend from the dark and send them fleeing, while he smashed into Fathen and ripped the priest apart with needle-sharp teeth. Erick smiled for the first time since his parents’ deaths, but it didn’t last. “It’s too dangerous. You’re fast, but a lucky swing could kill you
.”

  The townspeople drew closer. A rush of sadness and anger radiated from Erick that almost swayed Blink off the balcony. He turned to find his master staring at the cliff.

  “You were right,” Erick said. “They said a day might come when we would have to defend against forces rising against us. But they never told me what to do if they weren’t here. If I wasn’t ready.” His voice cracked. “I was supposed to leave them, not-” He turned, and Blink saw tears gathered in his eyes. “They could have at least given me a reason.”

  Blink put a clawed hand on his master’s shoulder. “You still have me. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Erick swallowed, and Blink sensed a small portion of the anger drift away. “Yes, I have you, and I’m glad of that. If you hadn’t been here, I may...” he swallowed.

  “At least they taught me something useful before they abandoned me.” Erick watched the approaching villagers. “I’ll take as many as I can before they kill us.”

  The unpredictable ocean wind shifted, and the salt air grew tainted with burnt pitch. The smell reminded Erick of blood gone rank.

  With his eyes fixed on the approaching torches, Erick pressed his middle finger against one of the balustrade’s sharpened spikes. He winced at the sharp pain. Drops fell to the ground as he held his injured finger over the side. Erick spoke dark words in a low voice. “Mahorela, aldone mucalz col cnila, abramge voh.”

  His pain was soon rewarded. “We wake, young master Erick,” the priquana, the most common form of quana, said as they stirred in the open mausoleums behind the manor. Their quiet voices reached him, carried by blood and the power of his chant.

  Blink leapt to the balcony floor. His loose gray breeches slipped. He tugged them up and tightened the drawstring.

  Erick sensed his servants’ uncertainty at being awakened. They continued to call. “We are coming to you. Is all well? Why is our sleep disturbed?”

  The priquanas’ voices echoed across the yard, funneled between the manor’s wooden planks and the rows of herb trellises. Erick couldn’t see them, but he sensed them shamble past the barn. The livestock, roused from sleep, added to the voices with nervous squeals, bleats, and clucks.

  As the sound of the undead reached the mob, they stopped and cast uncertain glances toward Fathen. Where Erick heard words of anxious concern from his servants’ mouths, the townspeople heard only wailing groans.

  Good, they’re afraid, Erick thought.

  They aren’t the only ones, Blink thought back.

  Having second thoughts? Erick asked. The closeness of his priquana gave him courage. The dark energy of Elonsha, the power that infused his servants with an imitation of life, also protected them from the living. The villagers would have to go through them to get to him.

  No, Blink answered, but fear is healthy. Gives you an impetus to live.

  I want to live, but I’m not afraid of death. I know what comes after.

  For you, yes. But are you sure my fate’s the same?

  Erick put his finger to his mouth, tasting the coppery blood as he considered Blink’s question. When he died, Erick would go to the Heaven of Caros. But would Blink, who had been created from his master’s essence? Daric’s homunculus, Sniffer, had melted away minutes after Darric fell to his death. What had happened to Sniffer’s soul? Did he have a soul? Questions Erick never thought to ask his father, and now it was too late.

  But he wouldn’t take the chance. He would live so Blink would live, and do whatever he must to survive. If that meant having his servants kill the villagers, so be it.

  The undead came into view. The people of Draymed shrieked and muttered as they saw the glaze-eyed creatures, dressed in loose pants and shirts of unbleached cloth gray as their waxy skin. The villagers made a nervous retreat but stopped after several paces.

  “What do you wish of us, Master Erick?” Javer asked. An army commander in life over a hundred years ago, he performed as overseer of the manor’s priquana.

  Wait.

  The priquana stood and waited.

  After their short retreat, the townspeople held their ground. Even at this distance, Erick heard them muttering, droning like the beehives in the manor’s small groves.

  Fathen strode forward until he stood beside mayor Carn and commander Brannon. They spoke, the priest occasionally pointing toward the house.

  Erick wiped his finger on his trousers. I don’t like this. He’s either building up their courage or telling them how to get past the quana.

  Or both, Blink offered.

  Erick leaned over the railing and looked at the undead gathered beneath. He pointed toward the gate. “Quana, zacare.”

  They lurched across the lawn. Fearful shouts bounced against the manor walls as people noticed the advancing bodies. Erick saw the priquana as if they still lived, with firm flesh and bright eyes. Only the silvery-black glow around them revealed their true nature. He had to concentrate to view them as the town did: shuffling beings of taut, withered skin, and milky, lifeless eyes that absorbed the flickering torchlight.

  The mob withdrew further, but the guards held firm, their fear revealed in their nervous shifting.

  Brannon gestured, and the guards moved closer. After a moment of hesitation, they seemed to decide the iron fence and closed gate gave them a measure of security. They edged even closer. When they stood within two sword lengths of the barred portal, they stopped, shields at the ready but weapons still in scabbards.

  What are they doing? Erick asked.

  It’s a trap. They must have figured out a way to kill the quana. They’re trying to lure you into attacking.

  Impossible. They don’t have quana to fight with. Even if they found another Necromancer, he wouldn’t help them.

  The quana continued their advance. With a task to perform, they had ceased their questioning; the only sound now was the whispery shuffle of shod feet over grass. As the creatures moved into the torchlight, the main body of the mob backed away. But the guards and town elders remained in stubborn immobility.

  As Erick watched, the quana drew within twenty feet of the gate. The guards held their ground, swords undrawn. The villagers grew quiet, eyes alert with trepidation, hands tightened on axes and cudgels.

  A few of the guards coughed and staggered, gagging on the Elonsha, a force so strong it permeated the physical world with a smell of rotten onions. Long accustomed to the odor, Erick allowed himself a tight smile at the soldiers’ discomfiture.

  The undead loomed within ten feet of the gate, yet the armed men displayed no signs of panic or defense. No soldier had put hand to weapon, and none of the villagers had run into the night.

  Then, to Erick’s amazement, the guards lowered their shields and parted, leaving the community’s leaders exposed to the creatures.

  It has to be a trap, Blink thought, claws scratching at the balcony floor.

  “Quana, alar!” Erick shouted, halting them short of the gate. Faces under torchlight turned to search for him.

  You may be right, Erick thought. But if they’ve found some way to destroy the quana, why are they standing there? Shouldn’t they be trying to push the gate open?

  How am I supposed to know? Blink asked.

  Mayor Carn limped forward, supported by his thick cane. “Hello, the manor,” he yelled, his voice as deep and impressive as his bulkiness. “Can you hear me?”

  Quana, zacare.

  The creatures advanced; the people reacted with screams and prayers to Caros. The guards scurried to protect Carn, bringing their shields to bear. Two drew weapons.

  Erick smiled. The townspeople had no overarching strategy, but they didn’t have much sense either. Why offer their leaders to him when they must know his creatures could kill them all? Or maybe they didn’t. How much had the priest told them?

  Maybe they’re coming to surrender.

  Puzzled by the villagers’ behavior, Erick didn’t offer a direct answer.

  I don’t get it either, Blink thought, reading his master�
��s emotions. You could always ask them.

  It would be easier to destroy them and be done with it. They have nothing I want.

  Blink shrugged. Perhaps at one time, Erick’s words had been true. But Corby’s visits had opened Erick to the world at the bottom of the hill. The villagers did have something his master wanted: the companionship of living people.

  The quana reached the gate. Their hands stretched through the dark iron bars. Erick tried to imagine being on the other side, watching as withered, bony arms reached out to grasp him. It must be terrifying. Erick hoped it was enough to make the intruders leave.

  “Quana, alar.” The creatures stopped and dropped their arms to their sides. Living and dead stared at each other.

  Carn used his cane to push aside the soldiers who blocked his way. He stepped to the fore and came almost within reach of the undead. Several people muttered fearful protests, but the mayor glared them into silence.

  He yelled toward the balcony. “Kill me if you wish, and prove the people of Draymed righteous in their fear, but I wish to speak with the owner of this manor.”

  “Then speak,” Erick yelled back. His voice sounded reedy in his ears compared to the mayor’s stentorian tone.

  Carn stared toward the second-floor balcony and squinted. “How old are you, boy?”

  “Seventeen. I’m no boy, and you would do well to remember that if you want to survive this night.”

  Erick heard more mutterings but couldn’t tell if they were fear or anger.

  “Surely you are the owner’s son,” Carn yelled. “I would speak with the Necromancer Darric Darvaul.”